


Ol Ascha

by kireteiru



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complete, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Episode: s02e15 Tall Tales, Episode: s02e21 All Hell Breaks Loose, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, Episode: s03e16 No Rest for the Wicked, Episode: s04e22 Lucifer Rising, F/M, Finally, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Pre-Stanford, Sabriel - Freeform, Sam Worships Gabriel as Loki, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05, Stanford Era, dean is oblivious, so is Bobby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3842614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kireteiru/pseuds/kireteiru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been said something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world. - Chaos Theory</p><p>Inspired by <a href="http://i-hope-they-have-wifi-in-hell.tumblr.com/post/117685760610/bulbul-e-bismil-i-hope-they-have-wifi-in-hell">this post</a> on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ol Ascha

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shakespeareishq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakespeareishq/gifts).



> According to my Enochian dictionary, "Ol Ascha" means "My God."

It started with a death.

By then, Sam knew that his father wasn’t a traveling salesman, that “Uncle Bobby’s” books weren’t just stories and fairy tales for “the book he would someday write” or whatever reason he made up that time. He knew that the reason they moved from town to town was to save people, hunt the evil things that killed them the way the Yellow-Eyed Demon killed Mom.

The town that Dad’s hunt had brought them to was in the Deep South, the heart of the Bible Belt, and the church that controlled it all was the kind that gave Christianity a bad name. Their minister bellowed sermons from his pulpit about fire and damnation and sinnnnnnn (the more n’s, the worse the sin) every Sunday, and the Wednesday Night Bible Study was full of more of the same.

It was this setting that had shaped the life of one Timothy Collins.

Sam met him on his first day of school in the tiny town, when an older student (who was _supposed_ to be showing him around) called out, “Oi! Fag!”

The younger Winchester brother flinched when Timothy wearily turned around. The other boy was nursing a black eye and a split lip, among other things, and walked with a limp where he’d been shoved to the ground and landed wrong.

“Show the new kid around, faggot,” said the elder student, “He’s your age, should be in most of your classes. Maybe you can finally get a bum chum of your very own, fairy!” He “patted” Timothy’s shoulder hard enough to slam him against the wall of lockers, sending his books flying, and walked off to join his friends, laughing.

Sam crouched to help Tim pick up his books. “I’ve seen their type before,” he said, organizing some of the other boy’s papers and tucking them back into his books, “Adults’ll tell you to ignore them, but they make it kind of hard, don’t they?”

Timothy snorted. “’Kind of?’ More like impossible.” He held out a hand. “Timothy Collins.”

“Samuel Winchester.” They shook.

“Welcome of this wretched hive of homophobia and douche-baggery,” said the other boy, hefting his books, “Get out while you can.”

“My brother and I are stuck here for a least a month, until our dad’s done with business.”

“Ah, a brother. I had a brother once, before I got outed,” Tim sighed, “But enough about that. What’s your first class?”

Sam pulled his meticulously folded schedule from his pocket. “Uh – English? With Mr Wilcox?”

“Oh, that’s my first class, too! He’s actually pretty decent, if you keep quiet and let him teach. This way.”

And so a friendship began between outcasts, “the new kid” and “the gay kid.” They bonded over Star Wars and science class and their universal hatred of writing but love of reading. It was a strong friendship for what it was –

-but not strong enough.

Timothy Collins committed suicide in April of 1994 by swallowing all of his mother’s sleeping pills with a mouthful of his father’s whiskey. When an announcement was made to the student body assembled in the school auditorium, only a handful of people kept silent while the rest cheered or gossiped.

One of them was Sam.

* * *

The candle Sam had nicked for his tiny ritual was plain, squat, and white, barely more than a votive, really. He lit it with the quick touch of a match, then sat back, shaking the match out.

His altar really wasn’t much – a tiny candle sitting on sand filling the bottom half of an old gas can, a small Godiva chocolate bar resting across from it (the best candy he could afford with his meager pocket money). The gas can was sitting concealed in the shadow of a junker so old and rusted and deep in the salvage yard that Sam sorely doubted Bobby would ever find it (or bother coming out this far). It really, _really_ wasn’t much, but altars had always been more meant for the men worshipping at them than the gods they were devoted to.

Even so, Sam felt bad that it was all he had to offer. A single votive, a chocolate bar, and a newspaper article was hardly the best way to gain standing with a pagan Trickster god in order to ask for a favor. (He hoped it would be enough anyway.)

The Winchester pulled the obit from the pocket of his jeans. It was Timothy’s, cut out from the newspaper from the tiny southern town, and it was the only mention his death had received (aside from word of mouth consisting of “good riddance” and “ding dong, the fag is dead”). Until then, Sam hadn’t known it was possible to be so homophobic.

He held the one-paragraph obit up to the flame until it caught, praying silently to the Trickster god he’d chosen to petition for help: Loki, of the Norse pantheon. Out of all the beings, gods, and Tricksters Sam had researched for this, he was one of the most interesting and “diverse,” given the limited amount of source material available (and the questionable accuracy of what there was). Of course, there was no telling how many of the myths were actually true, but the same could be said of any other Trickster. There was no telling what he’d actually  _do_ , either – would he accept the offering of a hunter? Would he even do anything at all, or just take the offering and run? Or would he turn the vengeance back on Sam? Tricksters could be capricious like that.

He dropped the smoldering paper before it could burn his fingers, letting it curl to ash on the sand and carry his request to the god, his plea for justice and revenge.

_(His family hunted monsters, but sometimes the worst monsters were human.)_

And then he got up and went inside, leaving the candle to burn.

* * *

The candle had burnt itself out by the next morning, miraculously not setting the salvage yard on fire despite burning unwatched. The sand was undisturbed, but the offering was gone, along with the ashes of the obit. The wind could have blown away the ashes, and some enterprising scavenger could have stolen the candy bar, but Sam hoped that wasn’t the case.

The youngest Winchester avoided looking at the news or any other media outlet in case he was disappointed, leaving the situation in the god’s hands. He did his homework and helped with the research for his dad’s hunts like normal, but every night, he prayed to Loki for help and justice, revenge, for Tim and others like him. He half-expected it all to be in vain.

(He’d always liked the idea of what the Tricksters did – taking the self-righteous down a peg, punishing them for their haughtiness. They didn’t seem truly evil to him, not the way they did to his dad, but neither did he think they were misunderstood. They killed people, but they seemed to restrict the more deadly of their pranks to the people who really, _truly_ deserved it.)

And then he got a response. Back on the road again with his dad, one day Sam came home from another school exactly like the twenty before it and the twenty that would come after it. Same classes, same teachers, same bullies, same _everything_. He let his backpack slide off his shoulder, making sure not to disturb the salt line as he stepped over it. He had the room to himself for at least another half an hour before Dean got out of school, longer if his brother stayed behind to get lucky with some girl.

Sam flopped face first down on his bed – and something under him made a crinkling noise.

His eyes shot open, wondering if it would be worth the risk to sit up in case it was a trap. He felt around with his non-dominant hand and came into contact with – a piece of paper?

It looked like it had been part of an ad in a newspaper. Someone had scrawled _“You’re all right, kiddo,”_ in an unfamiliar but elegant script over half a Viagra pill bottle. Sam frowned and flipped the paper over. On the other side was an article about the destruction of the very same town where he had met Tim Collins. Miraculously, no one had died, but there were a number of severe injuries, caused by a fire that had started in the church. The whole town had burned to the ground before the fire department could get the blaze under control. They were starting over from nothing, with no documentation or records or _anything_.

Sam allowed himself a small smile and slipped off the bed to kneel on the floor, hands folded, offering a short but heartfelt prayer of thanks to the pagan. Then he realized that Loki had gotten through the salt line and other protections on the motel room, and promptly freaked out.

His freak out was over by the time Dean got home. Tricksters, he reminded himself, weren’t like ghosts or demons. They were demigods with some power to reshape reality, and so it took stronger wards than salt or a few talismans to keep them out. Sam said nothing to Dean about the Trickster, even though he knew he should have – their location was known, their defenses compromised, but…

_You’re all right, kiddo._

He tucked the article into his bag.

* * *

His half-a-gas-can altar was still where he’d hidden it in the salvage yard, undisturbed. If Bobby had found it, he said nothing about it. Sam offered another candy bar to the Trickster in thanks, this one a king-size Snickers, and again it was gone by morning, the votive burnt out.

And so it began. Sam continued leaving out offerings of different candies when he could, burying them outside or hiding them under his bed so his father and brother wouldn’t see. He whispered prayers to the god in the middle of the night or while his father and brother were away, _:sensing:_ the Trickster listening and reacting to his words, funny things that happened at school and his latest prank war with Dean. Sometimes the god would get involved, too – or, at least Sam assumed it was him, because he didn’t remember buying and hiding 67 small plastic camels throughout their duffels, gear, and the Impala. (He’d woken to find one painstakingly balanced on his nose, and Dean had one in each ear.)

Loki made his presence known in other ways, too: an extra morsel wrapped up with his lunch, a brightly-colored candy wrapper flagging a library book he needed at just the right page, a link for hunter research popping up right when he needed it. They didn’t always appear, but he was grateful when they did.

There were other signs as well. On his first werewolf hunt, his father messed up – it hadn’t been one werewolf they were hunting, but six, an entire pack. They all fled the house that served as their lair and plunged into the forest behind it. John had rushed after them with Dean close behind, but Sam had proceeded with considerably more caution, his gun and silver bullets at the ready.

A good thing, too, because one of the weres had hung back, then rushed him out of the darkness. Sam leaped backwards, fired once. The werewolf dodged even as it lunged into striking distance –

-and tripped over nothing, landing face first in the dirt. Sam didn’t hesitate and shot it before it could get up again, letting out a small sigh of relief when it died quickly. When he inhaled, he smelled chocolate.

His father and brother celebrated his first werewolf kill by getting stone drunk and finally passing out in their motel room. They had tried to convince him to do the same, but he managed to divert them by only sipping at his beer when they were looking. In reality, though, he was waiting. When they were asleep and he had positioned them so that they wouldn’t asphyxiate on their own vomit, he slipped out to the nearest convenience store to buy the biggest bag of candy he could find. Sam buried it in the wooded area next to their motel, thanking his god repeatedly for his protection.

Then there was the time where he and Dean lived with Bobby for almost six months. Their dad had teamed up with a group of other hunters to track down and take out an uncomfortably large pack of werewolves, one with almost forty members. Dean kept the bullies off Sam when he stood up for the other kids at Sioux Falls, but they seemed to think that Dean dropping out over the summer meant that Sam was open season when school resumed in the fall. They called him names, slapped him around, tripped him up, stole his lunch, ruined his books, and tore up his backpack, all during the first week back. Though it kept their attention off their other targets, Sam had never been so glad to see the weekend, and dreaded Monday as it drew closer.

But when he got to school, he was left alone. Two of the boys, juniors, had switched schools. One of them, a senior, was in the hospital for a weird, sex-related accident. The rest ignored him, and shot him scared looks when they thought he couldn’t see.

Bobby would have noticed if he’d buried a bag of Ghirardelli chocolates on his land, the nicest he could buy with his allowance, so he hid them under his bed instead. The bag was gone in the morning, replaced by brand new copies of his ruined books, and he offered up another heartfelt prayer of thanks. No matter how small the sign, he always thanked the god for his help.

* * *

Sam didn’t expect Loki to help him get into Stanford, was never sure if he did, but he thanked him anyway, the way people would thank their gods for giving them victory in battle whether they had a hand in it or not. At Stanford, no one called him a traitor for having an altar to a pagan god in his bedroom or said that the only good pagan god was a dead one. There was no questioning or condemnation, usually just a genuinely curious “Why?” or a casual “Cool. I’ve seen people do weirder stuff than that for religion.”

His dad would have thrown a fit over the small table, figurine, votives, and bowl of sand for burning incense, which was partially why he made the altar. The other part was that it was nice to finally have a _real_ altar, one that wasn’t made from a gas can, a place where he could leave his offerings to Loki that didn’t involve digging in the backyard or discovering dust civilizations under motel beds. He could finally honor his god the way he felt was proper, wear his chosen deity openly rather than skulking around in the dark.

And his god’s presence in his life didn’t diminish, either. Books were still flagged for his attention in the library. Extra hours became available at his part-time job when he was strapped for cash. Obnoxious frat boys gave him a wide berth after he stopped them from almost putting a few freshmen in the hospital with a bad hazing. Loki seemed to understand Sam’s desire to start eating healthier, too, because sometimes fresh produce and other groceries would show up in the fridge without Sam or his roommates going to the store (though there was always a gallon of triple fudge ice cream that came with it).

(He liked to think that it was Loki’s way of showing his approval for going his own way, carving out his own destiny the way the god had been denied in the mythology. Of course, that led to internal debates about the fated weavings of the Norns and exactly how much free will he really had, or if leaving for Stanford was predestined, leading his mind around in confused circles until he decided to stop thinking about it.)

Meeting Jess didn’t change anything. She was Christian, yes, but she wasn’t one of _those_ Christians, the ones who had driven Tim Collins to take his own life all those years ago. She was confused over his choice of god, but perfectly content to hang out with her girlfriends or find something else to do away from their apartment when he was giving thanks or performing a ritual. In exchange, he would occasionally go to church with her and say grace with her at mealtimes. He was happy, and Loki’s blessings seemed to double, triple with his joy. He truly felt like his new life was a gift from the Trickster god.

Then the Demon came.

There was almost no warning – Sam was walking up to his apartment after watching Dean drive away (he hadn’t wanted to throw Loki’s gifts back in his face and return to hunting just because his brother had asked, no matter how close they were), when his _:other sense:_ of his god told him that something was horribly, _horribly_ wrong. He burst into the apartment, calling for Jess and cursing himself for a fool – he hadn’t even laid down an iron wire or salt line for protection –

Too little, too late. Jess burned like his mom, and he would have, too, if Dean hadn’t come back to save him.

When he finally fell asleep two days later, he felt Loki walking in his dreams, mourning with him.

* * *

The hunts continued, one right after the other, wendigos and demons and shapeshifters and ghosts. Loki’s blessings continued, too, though it was harder to keep the faith living in Dean’s pocket again. He hadn’t even been able to go looking for whatever was left of his altar with his brother so close, couldn’t even act like there was something there to be left behind. He was back to hiding and secrecy and offerings buried in the earth like Loki himself was after the death of Balder, bound in the entrails of his own son.

The god seemed amused by his frustration. Sam wasn’t sure if he was reaching out to the Trickster and the god was allowing it, or vice versa, but he could tell when Loki focused on him, and sense his intense and alien emotions. “It might not matter to you, but it does to me,” he murmured in prayer, sitting in the front seat of the Impala with his head bowed, while Dean gassed her up and bought snacks in the most “convenience store” convenience store he’d ever seen, “The altar has always been more for the worshippers than the worshipped.”

A low hum of acknowledgement at the back of his mind. And when he woke the next morning, the figurine from his altar was in his hand, blackened by soot and ash.

* * *

Loki did not like Meg.

Loki did _NOT_ like Meg, and that meant that Sam was as careful as he could be around her and as secretive as possible without giving cause for offense. If he couldn’t trust the judgment of his god, then what could he trust?

That also meant that when he couldn’t raise Dean and Loki told him to go find his brother, he went, stealing a car and speeding most of the way to the god-forsaken orchard. He apologized to the Trickster as the Vanir tree burned, but got the impression that the god didn’t really mind. A few more hunts passed without incident, a few salt and burns, one ugly rugaru, and a Lamia with a fetish for tall young men.

And then they went after a rawhead. Sam got the children the monster had been preying on out of the house, and when he came back to support his brother, he found that the creature had already been electrocuted.

And so had Dean.

For the first two days of his brother’s hospital stay, Sam scoured the internet for anything he could find about a reliable way of healing his brother, calling everyone even mentioned in his dad’s journal and nearly begging for help. On the third day, he set his figurine on the nightstand between the motel beds and kowtowed on the floor before it, praying for guidance from his god - Sam would accept whatever he was willing to offer.

He wasn’t sure how long he laid prostrate before his makeshift altar; it could have been mere minutes or even hours. He was disturbed from his prayers when his phone buzzed with a text, making him sit up to grab it.

A name and address, from a number so long it crashed his phone when he tried to pull it up. Sam practically threw himself at his laptop to look up this “Roy LeGrange” Loki directed him to. The man was a faith healer, but apparently the real deal – one of his “patients” had actually posted legitimate proof of his healing, hospital and examination records of before and after. It wasn’t a direct healing from the god himself, but Sam had never expected that. Still, it was _something_ , more than he’d dared to hope for, and he was going to seize it with both hands. He took his brother to Nebraska to see the faith healer, thanking Loki for the lead the whole way.

He became suspicious when the doctor who examined Dean told them about Marshall Hall and his mysterious heart attack, and Dean’s report of the strange man in a suit. He wanted to believe that it was just coincidence – correlation did not indicate causation – but his _:other sense:_ told him that the god had sent them here for a reason, that Marshall’s death was no accident.

While Dean was off talking to the reverend, he dug up what he could on the people that had previously been healed and cross-referenced them with the local obituaries, finding a match for every one. The “good reverend” was trading one life for another via a bound reaper, taking out people who he believed to be immoral, but it was only later that they learned it was his wife. Sam was able to break the cross she was using to control the reaper before she could order it to kill his brother, and the death angel turned on her, killed her instead.

( _He’s not_ your _God. But he’s not_ mine _, either._ )

* * *

Loki was right about Meg. Sam was suspicious, meeting up with her again right as they were investigating a case, mysterious murders inside locked homes and the weird Zoroastrian symbol drawn in blood on the ground. She was the one controlling the daevae, luring him and Dean in as a trap for their father. When they were attacked in the motel, Loki guided him in the right direction, and he was actually able to injure one of the shadow demons before lighting the flare to drive them away.

They parted ways with their father, only to be reunited once more with the discovery of the Colt and its power to kill anything. Their dad finally let them join in on his hunt for the Yellow-Eyed Demon, Azazel – but almost immediately, Meg was back and killing hunters to stop them. John was captured and possessed by the Demon itself, but even then, and with all their past fights, Sam couldn’t bring himself to kill his own father with the Colt. But that resulted in them getting hit by the possessed trucker and his semi truck on the way to the hospital. Sam was relatively uninjured, the same with Dad, but Dean…

He didn’t dare ask Loki to save his brother again. But then he didn’t have to. His father sacrificed himself and the Colt to the Azazel to save Dean. And then they were hunting again, trying to find the demon and anything that could lead them to it.

Loki didn’t like Gordon either, and Sam had learned to trust his judgment, staying away from the other hunter and managing to save the innocent vampires. They spared Gordon’s life, which came back to haunt them when he found out what the Yellow-Eyed Demon had planned for Sam and the others like them. He hunted Sam like he was some kind of monster, but Sam evaded him and his traps and turned the tables on him by placing an anonymous call to the cops, ensuring that he was arrested when he pursued them.

More ghosts and shapeshifters followed – and then Sam blacked out. It was Meg again, this time using _him_ as her meatsuit. When Sam – and therefore by extension, Loki – found out, the sheer rage the god put off made the human quiver before his presence. The god pushed through their connection, forming something like a wall of power inside him and then pushing it forward. It passed through him without harming him but put pressure on Meg, containing her in an increasingly small space inside him a la the trash compactor scene from _Star Wars_ , until she finally had to leave or risk getting killed inside him. It wore the hunter out, being subjected to that much power channeled through him, but once he was back on his feet, he made his largest offering ever to the Trickster.

And then he and his brother made for Springfield, Ohio. 

* * *

The instant he saw the janitor, Sam knew what they were dealing with. He recognized the signs, smelled a faint hint of sweets when he walked by the man into the professor’s office, and the fake urban legend about room 669 confirmed that there was no ghostly co-ed. While Dean went to a local bar to get drunk and hook up with some college girl, Sam went back to the school to “look around,” catching the Trickster as he was finishing up his rounds. The man paused what he was doing and lifted his head, but didn’t turn around when he heard Sam’s footsteps.

“So which one are you?” the hunter asked, “Coyote? Puck? Anansi?”

A ripple of amusement passed through the back of his mind as the Trickster turned around, smirking faintly. “You know who I am, Samuel Winchester,” he said.

And just like that, he did.

Sam only realized that he’d sunk to his knees when the Trickster approached to stand over him, pulling a lollipop from nowhere and sticking it in his mouth. Heart hammering in his throat, he reached out with shaking hands, hardly daring – and the god stepped into his touch, allowing the contact. “Loki,” he breathed, and leaned forward to rest his forehead against the god’s soft stomach.

Surprisingly gentle hands carded through his hair as he breathed in the sugar and ozone scent of his god, wrapping his arms around the Trickster’s waist to hold him close for as long as he would allow himself to be held. “You forced Meg out.”

“I did. I don’t like demons hooking their filthy claws into my worshippers.”

“The professor?” he asked, muffled into the other’s stomach.

“Mr Morality didn’t only sleep with the _willing_ ,” the god said quietly, “and some of his students were Dual Enrollment.”

Some of the girls were raped. And Dual Enrollment… High school students taking courses at the college for credit. Sam’s hands tightened in the fabric of his uniform. He could feel Loki’s satisfaction at his fury. He pulled back a little, looking down, and only then did he notice that he was fully hard in his jeans, erection straining against the denim. He made a noise of embarrassment and buried his face back in the god’s stomach.

Loki laughed. “Nothing to be embarrassed about, kiddo,” he chuckled, stroking the human’s hair, “I take it as a compliment.”

“Then…” Sam pulled back again, this time looking up, “Will you let me ‘compliment’ you further?” He laid his hands on the Trickster’s belt.

Loki grinned. “If that’s what you want, I’m certainly not gonna stop you.”

The god continued running his fingers through Sam’s hair as he unbuckled the Trickster’s belt and unzipped his uniform jumpsuit, pulling his half-hard cock out. Loki hummed low in his throat, and Sam licked up the side of his shaft, teasingly rubbing the underside of the head with his thumb. He had hooked up with a few guys in college before Jess, and he brought all of that experience to bear in order to please his god. Loki’s breath stuttered when he relaxed his throat to take him all the way down in one go, swallowing around his thick length and teasing the head with his tongue.

Sam was acutely aware of the fact that, to anyone else, he was blowing a random janitor in a hallway late at night, but this _was_ Loki, his god, the one who had helped him in so many ways, large and small. If this was a way he could give back to the Trickster aside from leaving sweets for him, then Sam was thankful for the opportunity. He pulled back to fist his cock and lap at the precum beginning to leak from the tip, then licked another swipe down the underside, following the vein and dipping his fingers into his uniform to tease at his balls.

He continued pleasuring his god until Loki said his name in warning, then deep-throated him and hummed around his shaft, making him arch in climax. The god’s semen was sweet on his tongue, like the candy he ate all the time, but it tingled like pop rocks on his taste buds. Sam eased back when he was fully soft, cleaned him off, and tucked him away, looking up into the Trickster’s eyes. Loki rubbed a thumb over his lips, Sam’s tongue darting out to lick teasingly at it, and the other’s eyes darkened with lust. “Close your eyes,” the god commanded, and the hunter did so, shivering only a little when Loki pulled him forward to hide his face in his stomach again –

And then a bolt of pure, absolute pleasure shot through him. He was coming instantly, arching into his god’s hands and clutching at his uniform for support as he jerked and whimpered his way through the most intense orgasm he’d ever had. It seemed to go on forever, rebounding through his body and peaking again just when he’d thought it was over. “No more,” he sobbed out finally, tears soaking into the fabric, “No more – can’t take it!”

The pleasure eased at last. He went limp with exhaustion, held up only by Loki’s support. The god cupped his cheeks, lifted his head to look at him. Now he saw why Loki had had him close his eyes; dimmed though they were, the hall lights still seemed blindingly bright, and likely would have pained him during his orgasm. “With you,” said the god, “I am _well_ pleased.” He lifted his head, gaze distant. Then he refocused on the hunter. “Your brother’s got a hook up for the night. Do you have somewhere else to be?”

“Not anymore,” Sam responded, voice rough.

“Good,” Loki grinned. He snapped his fingers, and then they were somewhere else entirely. It was a comfortable apartment that looked like something out of the seventies with kitschy knick-knacks, faux leather, and high contrast. Before he could process more than that, something hit his chest, knocking him back on his ass. A dog, he realized as Loki laughed, a Jack Russell whose tail was wagging so fast it was a blur.

The god sank back into one of the tacky pleather chairs, grinning, as Sam scratched behind the dog’s ears and rubbed her belly when she rolled over. After a few minutes, the Jack Russell – Mani, according to her collar, and the Norse word for the moon – bounded over to her owner as if to say, “I like this human! You should bring him around more often!” before disappearing elsewhere into the apartment. Loki stood up, hauled Sam to his feet with supernatural strength, and then pulled him down for a fierce kiss that left both of them breathless when it broke.

“C’mon,” said the god, “Shower’s this way. I bet your jeans are getting pretty uncomfortable.”

 _Now_ they were. Sam hadn’t paid attention until the Trickster said something, but his boxers were sticky and itchy with drying semen. He followed the god to the bathroom, which was just across the hall from a luxurious (if a little messy) bedroom. The bathroom was bigger than he expected, done in black and white swirl marble with a raining shower and a sunken tub big enough for an orgy. “Come join me in the bedroom when you’re done. Oh, and consider yourself warned: Mani _will_ try to join you in the shower. Try not to trip and fall. It’d be a terrible waste.”

“Not going to join me? No shower sex?” Sam teased.

“Mm, tempting, but not now.” Loki licked his lips. “Maybe later, if you can still get it up when I’m done with you.”

“Sounds like a challenge.” The hunter started stripping under the god’s appreciative eyes.

“I’m sure you’ll _rise_ to the occasion.” The Trickster caught the shirt Sam threw at him and tossed it back with a grin, slipping out before the human could throw it again. The human stepped into the shower, holding open the door for Mani, who hopped in with him, tail wagging. As he showered and scrubbed himself and the dog, Sam began worrying. The god’s previous mention of his brother had brought forward an old worry about Dean “The Only Good Pagan Is A Dead One” Winchester. Dean wasn’t going to just abandon the hunt until they were sure there was nothing, but he was positive that Loki had more targets elsewhere on campus and in the town beyond.

Dean was going to try to kill his god.

“What has you looking so sour, Sam-a-lam?”

Sam blinked. Loki was leaning against the doorframe, still in his uniform, another lollipop in his mouth. “I don’t want Dean to kill you,” he blurted out before he could think of a better way to word it, “and he isn’t going to give up until you’re dead.”

The god just laughed. “Oh, he’ll kill something all right, but who says it’ll actually be me?”

And then the illusion dissolved into thin air as Mani shook herself off and bounded out of the shower. Sam grinned in relief and shut off the water, stepping out of the shower and grabbing a towel to dry himself off. When he entered the bedroom, he saw the real Loki sitting on the floor in a plain tank top and red silk boxers, rubbing Mani dry with another fluffy towel. The dog shook herself again, but since she was already mostly dry, there wasn’t much damage for her to do via flying water.

“Hey!" the god yelped, "Go on now, shoo!” The dog scurried away, and Loki stood up. “Mm, that’s a sight for sore eyes,” he said, looking Sam up and down and making him blush. Loki stepped up and ran a hand over his abs. “D’you want to continue what we started?”

Sam shivered at the god’s hot touch and arched into it, nodding. He dipped his head and pulled the Trickster into a kiss, his hands settling on the other’s hips. Loki responded eagerly, tangling their tongues together as the human guided him back to the bed. Sam lifted him easily and set him on the edge of the bed, still kissing.

When he moved to sink to his knees, Loki broke the kiss to murmur, “You kneel often enough, kiddo. Get up here,” and laid back on the bed, pulling Sam up overtop of him.

Sam’s hands roamed his small form, delighting in his warmth and softness, a result of all the candy he ate and the rate at which he burned off the energy. Loki banished the towel around his waist with a flick of wrist, then grabbed his worshipper’s hips and pulled him down. Sam groaned like he was in pain when their erections rubbed against each other, reaching between them to fist their cocks. The god hummed in satisfaction, and kissed him, tongue snaking out to engage Sam’s in battle. The human rose to the occasion, not wanting to give in without a fight.

Eventually, Loki rolled them over so he was on top and slipped down Sam’s body, kissing and nipping and almost worshipping his muscled abdomen, then teasing the head of the human’s weeping member with the tip of his tongue. Sam whined at the touch, trying to buck up into the Trickster’s mouth, but his hips were pinned to the bed by a single hand. He found the ease at which his god held him immobile to be an unexpected turn on, a reminder that no matter what he looked like, his current bedmate wasn’t human and could screw him over at any time. “Loki,” he moaned as the Trickster pulled his legs apart.

The god looked up from where he’d dropped to teasing the human’s balls. “Yes, Sam-a-lam?” He licked a stripe up his worshipper’s cock, then pushed himself up to lean over the human, still settled between his legs.

“Loki, please,” he panted, lifting one of his legs to expose his hole. The god hummed and smoothed his thumb over the puckered flesh, making Sam arch and shiver as the touch tingled and creeped inside him, leaving him feeling open and clean right before he was slicked with lube. He wrapped his arms around the Trickster’s shoulders, pulling him in close as the god pushed inside him. Gathering himself, Sam rolled them over again, panting as he sat up, then began to ride the god’s cock.

Loki groaned under him and gripped his hips, thrusting up as Sam pushed down. They found a quick if a little awkward rhythm, moving together in pursuit of their orgasms. Loki sensed Sam getting close and grinned, then reached up to grip the back of his neck.

He arched so far he thought his back would break and _screamed_ as another bolt of pleasure shot through him, this one more intense than the last. His nails dug into the bed sheets as he whined and writhed in pleasure, jerking and spasming around his god’s cock. He only vaguely felt Loki’s own orgasm, the Trickster’s semen slicking his insides, before he went limp in his god’s grasp, worn out from the two most intense climaxes he’d ever had.

Loki wrestled his lax form onto the mattress and snapped up a washcloth, wiping them both down before shifting them under the blankets. “Can I ask you something?” Sam slurred, rolling over to half-drape himself over his god’s back. He always felt useless after a really good climax.

“Sure, go right ahead.”

“How many of the myths are true?”

Loki shifted under his arm. “More than most people know, but less than you fear,” he said finally, “I never actually gave birth to an eight-legged horse, for example. But Thor _did_ help sew my lips shut.”

“Asshole,” the human murmured, and pulled him closer, nuzzling into the god’s shoulder.

As he drifted off, he heard Loki whisper, “I’m sorry about your girlfriend, Sam. I know how much you loved her.”


	2. Ol Monons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, according to my Enochian dictionary, "Ol Ascha" means "My God." "Ol Monons" means "My Heart." Also playing with my headcanon that angels can't lie when they swear on even one of the names of God.

When Sam woke the next morning, he was alone in the bed, but he could smell breakfast. He squirmed out from under the covers, found his clothes folded on a chair in one corner of the room, and tugged on his boxers before going to investigate. Loki was cooking in the kitchen – _actually cooking_ , rather than simply snapping something up, though he did have another lollipop in his mouth. “Morning, Sammich,” he said cheerfully when he spotted the human, “Sleep well?”

“Better than I have in a long time.” It had actually been restful, too. He had felt safe in the presence of his god, and so completely let down his guard and just _slept_. The Trickster must have kept his nightmares away, too, because he hadn’t seen Jess burn on the ceiling again. It was a relief.

Loki smiled, and Sam couldn’t resist leaning in and kissing him. That made the god’s smile widen, and the lollipop vanished from his mouth as he opened up to tangle their tongues. When he finally pulled back, both of them were panting for breath, though the Trickster recovered substantially quicker. “Mm, that’s a nice wake-up call,” he purred, and was about to lean in for more when Sam’s stomach let out a loud growl, making clear its displeasure at not being filled.

Sam grinned sheepishly, but Loki only laughed. “Have a seat, Sam,” he said, “and feel free to help yourself.”

There were containers of milk and orange juice in a bucket of ice on one side of the table, so he poured himself a glass of the latter, and the former for his god. He moved to the fridge, hunting for – aha! The chocolate syrup that he knew had to be there, and added a hefty amount, mixing it in before offering it to the god. Loki grinned and took a sip, smacking his lips approvingly.

When he peeked in the fridge again, he found that the crisper drawer was full of fresh fruit and vegetables, likely for him, since the rest of the fridge was full of sugary drinks and treats for the Trickster. The god had told him to help himself, so he did, chopping up the fruits into a salad and munching on it while the god whipped up a towering stack of flapjacks with a ton of chocolate chips inside, and a smaller stack with blueberries and bananas.

As they ate, Loki stole many of the strawberries from Sam’s fruit salad and dipped them in a bowl of chocolate that had appeared on his side of the table, sometimes using them as props as he told his worshipper stories about himself and the other pagans. Many of them made the human laugh so hard that he had to stop eating or risk choking on his meal.

The Trickster displayed his incredible strength and control in their morning shower, as well, effortlessly holding Sam up as he fucked the hunter into the shower wall, not slipping or faltering in the slightest under the spray. The bursts of ecstasy the god gave him were thoroughly ruining him for anyone else, not that he would ever really be interested in ordinary people after sleeping with a _god_ , and Sam came once, twice, _three_ times under the Trickster’s power, sobbing with pleasure.

Every night that he could get away while they were in Springfield, he joined the god in his kitschy apartment. Some nights they fucked until the bed broke, others they ate dinner and told one another stories, tall tales about their lives or things they’d heard during their travels.

But it couldn’t last. Bobby came at Dean’s request, and told them about Tricksters. Even though Sam had already known, he was an accomplished liar, even to his brother and father figure, and successfully convinced them that he’d had no idea what was going on. True to his word, Dean killed _something_ , but as the Impala sped away from the school, Sam looked back to see Loki appear in one of the windows of the assembly hall, a lollipop in his mouth.

* * *

When Sam woke up in Cold Oak, the first thing he realized was that he couldn’t sense his god. That alone told him that something was wrong, even before he’d opened his eyes in the deserted town. Only something _really_ powerful or _really_ skilled could block their connection so absolutely, and that scared him more than anything. Whatever it was, he did _not_ want to meet it.

He dug in his pockets for his cell phone, but with no service it was just a lump of metal, so he put it back. He had no weapons, either, not even a penknife, which made arming himself jump to his first priority.

Since there was no one around to complain about a little vandalism, Sam carefully broke one of the nearby windows as quietly as he could and tore off strips of his shirt so he could use them to bind the glass pieces to crude wooden hilts. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

He almost gutted Andy with one of the blades when the other “special child” staggered out of an alley. It was after that that they heard the screaming. This time it was Ava. Though she claimed that she had just woken up half an hour ago, his “god-sense” was apparently good for more than just connecting with Loki. It let him know that she was lying through her teeth, that she had been here since the day she went missing from her home. He kept that thought in the back of his mind when they met two more special children, Jake and Lily.

The others, the ones who didn’t know about the supernatural world, were freaking out, disbelieving when he told them what was going on with the Demon and the war. Lily left outright, and Sam knew that that was the last he would be seeing of her alive.

And he was right. He sensed _something_ moving through the ruined town, something _nasty_ , likely the acheri that attacked Jake, and it hanged Lily from the windmill.

The Yellow-Eyed Demon appeared to him in a dream that night, and told him how his mother died and also why Jess died – because of _him_. His life had been finally on the right track, but that wasn’t what the Demon wanted for him and so he’d killed her. It showed him the night his mother died, how he’d been forced to drink demon blood to mark him as one of the Special Children and set him apart. As the dream faded, the Demon said, “I may be rooting for you, Sam, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let your jumped-up pagan prankster come here to give you an edge. He’d ruin all my plans.”

His “god sense” was right about Ava. She admitted to controlling the acheri and killing both Lily and Andy, to being in Cold Oak for months and killing other Special Children who showed up periodically. Sam saw how the demon blood had corrupted her, changed her, and couldn’t have been more grateful to Jake when he snapped her neck before the acheri could kill him.

But that didn’t stop the other man from stabbing him in the back just after his brother arrived. As his life drained away, he swore he heard someone singing.

* * *

“Sam.”

The dream he’d been having, a new nightmare of Dean getting torn apart by hellhounds, dissolved around him as he woke, sitting up in the darkness of the motel room he shared with Dean. His brother was still asleep in the other bed, making him sigh, before he looked around.

Loki stepped out of the shadows, and Sam felt the tension in him ease. He got onto all fours and crawled to the end of the bed as the god approached, wrapping him in a firm hug. The god’s presence at the back of his mind was his now-constant companion, but it was a relief to actually see him again. They embraced one another for several minutes, before Loki finally stepped back.

Even sitting on the bed, Sam was tall enough (and Loki short enough) that they could look into one another’s eyes. The god seemed unusually serious, so unlike the laughter and pleasure that had characterized their last close encounter. “I want you to listen to me very carefully, Samuel,” he said quietly.

Sam nodded, and put everything else aside to focus on the Trickster.

“I am willing to lend you a weapon that can kill Lilith,” said the god, making him sit up straighter, eyes wide, “but I have a condition. If you cannot kill her before your brother is taken to Hell, you must return it, and stop hunting her.”

“But-” Sam started to argue, before the god cut him off.

“ _Promise me you will do this,_ ” Loki said over him, voice more resolute than stone, than steel, “and then I will tell you _why_. Swear it, on all you hold dear, that you will comply no matter what happens or what changes.”

Sam looked over at Dean, then back at his god, studying his face. The god was _absolutely_ serious about this, more than he’d ever been, and that convinced him that this was a real offer, that this was a chance – even the tiniest – to take the demon out. “I swear it,” he said, and meant it, “I will abide by your terms, no matter what.”

Loki reached into his jacket, and pulled out a short double-edged blade made of a strange, alien metal. He held it out. When Sam took it, it felt warm to the touch with more than just body heat, and staticky, making his hand tingle. “What is this?” he asked.

“The sword of an archangel.”

Sam’s head snapped back up to stare at his god. “An _archangel_?” he said, accidentally loud, before lowering his voice to a whisper, “Like an _actual angel_? With feathery wings and a gold halo and all that?”

Loki snorted at his description. “Yes.”

“How’d you get it?”

The god was silent, and looked away.

“Loki?” Sam asked hesitantly. He tried to reach out, get a feel for his god, and was gently rebuffed.

“My name is Loki,” he said quietly, “and I swear on all the names of my Father that there has never been any other Loki than me, but that’s not _all_ I am.” As he looked back up at Sam, a shiver went down his spine, and somehow he : _knew:_ that the other was telling the truth. “My real name is Gabriel.”

‘Gabriel…? The –‘ “Oh,” the hunter said softly, and looked back at the sword. _The sword of the Archangel Gabriel, the Messenger of the Most-High God._

“If you kill Lilith, it _has_ to be before your brother goes to Hell,” Loki – _Gabriel_ said softly, looking like he wanted to reach out to touch but was unsure if he was still allowed, “and the reason for that, is that doing so after he gets back would break the Last Seal on the Cage.” He twitched, and took on a strange, distant gaze, like he wasn’t actually the one who was speaking. “ _The number of the Seals shall be beyond the counting of Men,”_ he said, his voice vibrating through Sam’s bones, _“but only six-and-sixty need be broken for the Opening of the Door. The First Seal shall be broken when a Righteous Man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall it break. The breaking of four-and-sixty shall follow, upsetting the Natural Order of the Earth. The First Demon shall be the Last Seal. When her blood spreads free on consecrated ground, the Door in the Cage shall Open. The Fallen Star will walk the earth, and Hell will follow him. Behold, the End of Days.”_

Sam started to shake, clutching at the archangel’s sword, beginning to realize that this wasn’t just about his brother’s contract being fulfilled, that this was _so_ much bigger than he had initially thought. His breath came quicker, heart racing, but it felt like he still couldn’t breathe. He peripherally realized he was having a panic attack.

“Sam? _Sam!”_

Hands grabbed him, made him put down the sword and pulled him up against someone soft and warm and smelling of sugar and ozone. “C’mon, Sam, breathe with me.” Bit by bit, he calmed back down, and realized that Gabriel had his head tucked into his neck and was rubbing his back in slow figure eights, emanating a soothing warmth. His hands were clenched in the fabric of the archangel’s jacket so tightly that his knuckles were aching like he’d gone a hundred rounds with a punching bag. Gabriel let him hold on for as long as he wanted.

At last, they eased apart, though Gabriel seemed reluctant to let go. “What-” Sam coughed, “What did you mean, ‘after Dean gets back?’”

He winced a little, dropped his gaze. “Angels aren’t like what you see in paintings and stained-glass windows,” the archangel told him, looking at the ground, “We’re all energy and light, and looking at our True Forms can kill you, if you’re the wrong person. In the very least, it’ll burn out your eyes. We need vessels, people who will allow us to possess them, in order to walk around on the earth. But that’s not good enough for archangels. We need True Vessels, people who were born _specifically_ to carry us. Otherwise our vessels’ll rot away around us, burn up from the inside no matter who they are.”

Sam flinched at the mental image.

“Yeah. And it just so happens that your brother Dean-o over there-” He waved in the direction of the other bed, “-was born to be Michael’s Vessel. If Heaven wants to start the Big A, he’s no good to them dead and in Hell. They need him alive to let Michael in, so he can have his showdown with Lucifer.”

“And me?” Sam whispered.

Gabriel was silent.

“L-Gabriel?”

The archangel flinched a little at the sound of his real name. “You’re meant to be Lucifer’s. Heaven and Hell want you both to say ‘yes’ so they can have their winner-take-all dick-waving contest, but if you can kill Lilith before Dean goes to Hell, you can derail their plans. The Cage won’t open if she dies before the First Seal is broken. I’d do it myself if I could, but she won’t show for me.”

“You can’t do anything more than this to help.” It was half-statement, half-question.

“I might be an archangel, but I’m just _one_ archangel. Lilith’s got the full might of Hell at her back. I could delay it, but she’d just keep sending more and more opponents to collect. Even I have my limits, and then we’d _all_ be dead. Well,” he looked morbidly thoughtful, “ _I’d_ be dead. Heaven would bring your brother back for Michael, and Hell would bring you back for Lucifer, but I’d still be dead.”

“ _Not an option.”_ Gabriel flinched back a little, then blinked. “Real pagan god or no, you’ve supported me, helped me, protected me all my life. I won’t ask you to go to your death, not for me.”

His expression gentled. “You’re – You’re taking this very calmly.” For an ancient, super-powered archangel, he sounded remarkably hesitant, childlike. “I expected more yelling.”

“Does this change everything you did for me as Loki?”

“Uh – no?”

“Would you rather I was angry?”

“No.”

“Then why _would_ I be angry?” He reached out to pull the Trickster into a hug. “You’re giving me a means to actually _kill Lilith_ and all the facts behind what’s happening. At this point, I’d forgive you for almost anything.”

Gabriel let out a shuddering sigh that tried its hardest not to be a faint sob, and returned the embrace. Finally, they pulled back again. “So how do I work this?” Sam asked, picking up the sword, “Just stab her anywhere with it?”

“Torso shots are best. Easier to hit than the head, and stabbing an arm or a leg would just injure her, not kill her. And try to avoid stabbing yourself, too.”

“Sounds simple enough.” He tested its balance and heft. The blade was very well made, a seamless, unbroken piece of metal formed into an angelic sword. Sam looked back to the archangel. _“Thank you.”_

Gabriel smiled. “No problem, kiddo. But remember your promise, and stay away from the bitch Ruby.”

“Ruby?” The demon who wanted to help him kill Lilith? Then it hit him. “She’s-”

“Working for Lilith, yes.” Gabriel scowled. “Lilith _wants_ to die. One last ‘fuck you’ to Dad, and she’s willing to do anything get you to kill her and set Lucifer free. Near as I can tell, Ruby was supposed to gain your trust and trick you into it, dunno how, but I _definitely_ recommend staying away from her anyway. Feel free to test that on her if you like, though,” he added, tilting his head towards the blade.

Sam nodded firmly, hand tightening on the sword. “I will. You have my word.”

Gabriel smiled again. “I’ll see if I can get us some help, even if it’s passive. I know a few gods who aren’t going to go quietly into the night.” He said, and vanished with a flutter of invisible wings.

* * *

Sam stood looking at Dean’s grave for a long time after Bobby had gone, silently grieving. His tears had long since run dry, but the sorrow was not so easy to shake, even though he knew that his brother would be back.

A flutter of wings made him lift his head. It was L- _Gabriel_ , looking at the cross that Sam had erected over his brother’s corpse. The human pulled the angel sword from his coat and held it out. The archangel took it and made it vanish. Then he stepped closer and squeezed the younger man’s arm, his gaze flicking up to meet Sam’s. “I’m tired,” the human said softly, voice hoarse.

The archangel-Trickster slipped an arm around his waist and pulled him close. Sam _:felt:_ him open his wings-

-and then they were flying. Though Gabriel’s grasp on him was stronger than steel, he still felt as if he was in free fall, yet simultaneously held in place by the arm around his waist.

The world reformed around them. It wasn’t the apartment from before, the cheesy, over-the-top Trickster façade. Instead it was a house, a _home_ , done in pastel colors, bright and warm but easy on the eyes, with comfortable furniture and large windows. Gabriel led him through the halls to the master suite, and left him to it. Sam appreciated that the archangel hadn’t just snapped him clean, instead letting him do it himself.

He stripped and stepped into the shower. The water rained down from overhead as he rested his forehead against the tile, the warmth seeping into his bones and easing sore muscles. It appeared to have some minor healing properties, too, because some of his bruises and scrapes faded away even as he watched.

Mani appeared at his feet. She seemed to know that something was wrong because she stayed quiet, just leaning against his leg as the water poured down over them until he knelt to scrub her down.

A soft set of pajamas and boxers were waiting for him on the bed when he emerged, toweling himself and the dog dry. He dressed, then went in search of the archangel, the Jack Russel padding along next to him.

Gabriel was in the kitchen, cooking for him. He’d whipped up a salad with perfectly grilled chicken and crisp basil, with corn, slices of peaches, small pieces of onion, chopped pecans, and goat cheese mixed in. A mason jar of salad dressing sat next to the bowl. The archangel informed him that it was a [Peach Salad with Grilled Basil Chicken and White Balsamic-Honey Vinaigrette](http://www.cookingclassy.com/2015/08/peach-salad-with-grilled-basil-chicken-and-white-balsamic-honey-vinaigrette/), then said softly, “Even if you’re not hungry, force yourself to eat. You need to keep up your strength, Sam.”

He had no energy to resist, or get angry and lash out. The younger Winchester ate the whole thing, only realizing how hungry he’d actually been when he was halfway through the bowl. While he did so, the archangel moved quietly around the kitchen, lending comfort simply with his presence, and when he was done, the other led him back to the master bedroom and turned down the bed for him while he brushed his teeth, Mani still leaning against his leg.

When the angel turned to go, to leave him to his rest, Sam gripped his arm. Gabriel looked at him, then changed his own clothes to pajamas without a word and climbed into bed next to the human, gathering him close while Mani hopped up to stretch out on the end of the bed.

* * *

And then Dean came back, exactly as Gabriel said he would.

* * *

The blood was pouring out of Lilith’s wound, soaking into his clothes and spreading out across the ground. Sam yelled a denial and put pressure on the wound, trying to stop it, but Lilith only laughed, the sound echoing in the chapel. He gritted his teeth and punched her, almost breaking his hand in the process, but it was worth it when she shut up.

Then the demon threw him backwards into the stone wall of the chapel next to the door, and Sam heard his brother yell his name as he slid to the ground, dazed. Dean was still tied to the altar, Ruby scrambling back toward him and away from Lilith. “My lord,” gasped the white-eyed demon, and fell forward onto the stone floor, her blood already beginning to swirl and form the Door.

Sam shook his head to clear it and forced himself to his feet. The angel blade that Lilith had forced into his hand was still there, and he gripped it tight as he sprinted across the chapel toward the altar, kicking Ruby aside as he moved to save his brother. The razor sharp edge cut through the ropes like a hot knife through butter. Dean rolled off of the altar the instant he was free, stumbling a little as feeling returned to his limbs. Sam grabbed his brother and held him up until he got his feet under him before they both took off for the open doors.

The doors slammed shut just as they reached them, the Door in the Cage opening behind them and a pure, white light – the light of the Morning Star – filling up the cathedral. Both of them glanced back in panic and fear, watching helplessly and clutching at one another as Lucifer began to emerge, the temperature dropping as its power built-

-And then they were somewhere else. There was a moment of disorientation, but then Sam recognized the house, even though he had only been there once before. “Gabriel?!” he cried.

A second later, the Trickster-slash-archangel was there, taking in the demon blood on his clothes with swiftly dawning horror. “I tried-” Sam gasped, stumbling forward and reaching for his god, halfway into a panic attack, “I couldn’t – she had-”

“Shh.” Gabriel pulled him into a hug so fierce he felt his ribs creak and ache, but it felt so good anyway. “It’s okay, Sam. It’s all right. We’ll figure something out, we’ll find a way to stop this.”

The archangel’s tone brooked no argument, so Sam believed him.

* * *

And they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's what Gabriel makes for Sam: http://www.cookingclassy.com/2015/08/peach-salad-with-grilled-basil-chicken-and-white-balsamic-honey-vinaigrette/


End file.
